A Serious House on a Serious Earth
by A Penguin Named Jack
Summary: Inmates have taken the Asylum under Joker's lead. He wants Batman to join them in the madhouse... The events of Morrison's Arkham Asylum, as intepretated with a Nolanverse setting.
1. Prelude

**I attempt to combine Grant Morrison's brilliant psychological work **_**Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth **_**with Nolanverse, post-TDK but pre-Rises. Granted, to fit in Morrison's work in most of its entirety I regrettably had to make some changes to this story's versions of TDK's ending. In other words, Harvey isn't dead (but in a considerably worse mental state that when we saw him in TDK) and Batman isn't wanted by the police force. **

**Apologies in advance if these changes to the timeline offend any of my fellow TDK trilogy fans. – Jack**

The bleak skyline of Gotham City dominated the night. Giant buildings rose from the murky fog below, their illuminating lights piercing the darkness. In the middle of the showcase of modern architecture was Wayne Tower, the giant neon W catching many an eye. Above the city was a gathering fugue of shady clouds, foreshadowing a coming storm. Without warning, something shone.

A beam of light.

The signal for a vigilante who patrolled the city. He wasn't their hero, but a silent guardian. Their watchful protector. A dark knight to replace the fallen white knight. The Batman.

Commissioner Gordon waited on the rooftop of the GCPD building anxiously. The situation at Arkham was brewing out of control as the rioters demands grew more ludicrous. He needed the man who had brought many of those rioters in. Gordon prayed that the Dark Knight wasn't busy tonight.

"Sorry I'm late, commissioner. Problems out of town." A coarse and intimidating voice surprised Gordon. As usual, Batman had snuck up on him with warning. Gordon wouldn't be surprised if he pulled his disappearing act this evening too.

"What's the problem, Gordon?" The Batman's steel eyes locked onto Gordon, studying the commissioner.

"There's been a riot at Arkham Asylum. That's the problem, Batman." Batman's expression did not change as he heard this. But Gordon thought he saw a plan hatching itself within the man's calculating gaze.

"We don't know how it happened, but early this morning the inmates seized control of the building. They're holding the Asylum staff hostage, making all kinds of crazy demands. We've had to send in furniture, store dummies, food, clothing, and much more. They only have one more demand, Batman, thank god."

"They've wanted to talk to you personally." Gordon said with hesitation.

"I see." Batman coldly replied. Gordon shivered. The man had been acting gloomier since they brought in both the Joker and Harvey Dent.

A cop in a uniform and pudgy face ran up to Gordon panting. He slipped the police chief a cell phone. Gordon put it to his ears and gasped. He offered it to Batman.

"It's the Joker." Batman put the phone to his ear and spoke. "I'm here, Joker."

"Well, hello, big boy!" Batman couldn't help but grimace as he heard the bastard's voice again. The Joker brought back painful memories of his failures. Rachel and Harvey along with much more lives tarnished or ended by his schemes. "Have you figured out how I got these scars yet?"

"Don't waste my time, Joker. Just tell me it what it is you want." The Joker hadn't been a free man ever since Batman had defeated him that night, but he had quickly risen through the ranks of the mental hospital's social hierarchy. He was bound to cause trouble again.

"Oh, I think you can guess… We want you. In the madhouse with us. Where you belong."

"And what if I say no?" Batman asked. He was answered by the sound of something going skrit and skritch.

"What's that noise?" Gordon asked. "I think the Joker's scratching something." The pudgy cop responded.

"Well… we have so many friends here, darling. Say hello to Pearl, Batman. Such a crybaby, isn't she?"

A frightened girl's voice joined the Joker's. _She must be barely out of high school. _Batman thought. _I can't let this happen. Not another innocent that I've killed by letting him live. I wish I could've done it, Joker. For Rachel. But I mustn't cross the line, for what would separate me from you?_

"Oh Buh-Bat-Bat-Bat- ohhh" Pearl stammered.

"Pearl is nineteen years old." The Joker stated while the sharpening sound grew louder.

Pearl continued to sob while the Joker continued.

"She just started work in the kitchens to make some extra money. Pearl wants to be an artist, don't you darling?" The sobbing grew.

"She just drew me a beautiful house. She drew it with this pencil." The sharpening sound climaxed and then stopped abruptly.

"The one I just sharpened."

"Open your eyes wide, Pearl!"

"Beautiful… blue… eyes…"

Batman heard the girl scream. "NO!" Batman heard himself screaming too. He felt powerless to stop the Joker. A feeling that was replaced by a burning desire to march to Arkham and enact some vengeance for the torment that he had caused Bruce.

"You have half an hour, Batman. And bring a sparkling new set of paints for Pearl here!" Joker's voice grew slowly in a subdued but haunting cacophony of laughter. It chilled Batman's bones.

"Oh Jesus, that poor girl. Batman, I…" Gordon, visibly shaken, stammered.

"I'm going in, Jim." Batman decided.

"You okay?" Gordon asked. "You don't have to do this, Batman. I can call up the SWAT, have them storm the place like…"

"No, this is something I have to do." Batman answered him staunchly. His fist was clenched and shaking.

"I can understand if you're afraid. I know Arkham's reputation and you didn't have the best time of your life last time you headed there."

"That time was nothing, Jim. Batman's not afraid of anything. It's me. I'm afraid that deep down, the Joker may be right about me belonging in the madhouse. Even in the past there was a part of me that questioned the rationality of Batman. It makes me afraid that when I walk through those gates and the doors lock me in Arkham, it'll be just like coming home."

Gordon tried to think of some uplifting encouragement for his friend. The two of them had gone through so much together. Once there had been three of them fighting the crime and corruption that eroded Gotham. But that time was over. Thanks to the Joker.

Forever, the costumed vigilante and police commissioner would have to lament their failure. A heroic district attorney who fell prey to his darker side in tormented anguish. Harvey Dent would forever be a faded example of the man he had once been, now just an indecisive wretch fractured between morals.

Gordon turned and saw that Batman was gone.

Predictable.


	2. Arrival

Gotham denizens gaped and pointed in awe as Batman sped past the nightlife of Gotham on his motorbike, which the newspapers had affectionately dubbed the "Bat-Pod." Some of them even cheered him on.

The streets and signs became a blur as Batman urgently rode to the Narrows. The metropolis of Gotham City grew smaller behind him. Gordon had called ahead to the bridge security so Batman sped right past the gates. Who knew how many more the Joker or other inmates had killed in the time he would waste getting to Arkham Asylum? The two halves of the bridge were raised as soon as he was on the island. He was on his own now.

It was almost redundant, to refer to just the building as Arkham Asylum. The mental hospital had always been located on the island detached from the bulk of Gotham City. It was surrounded by the crime-ridden district the Narrows for as long as Bruce had lived. But recently, that all changed.

_We tried to salvage the Narrows. But none of us could do it. Not Batman, not Gordon, no one could. _Ra's al Ghul, one of the men who had mentored Bruce, had planned to purge Gotham City of its corruption for the greater good by contaminating the entire city with the fear-inducing toxin that Dr. Jonathan Crane had developed. In the ensuing chaos, the city would've torn itself apart in fear.

The attack had started in the Narrows. As such, the slums had received the greatest dose of the toxin. Although Batman had stopped Ra's from infecting the entirety of Gotham, the Narrows remained a lawless cesspit for months following the attack. Batman and Gordon worked together to try and restore order to the region, but in the end a decision was made. What sanity remained in the Narrows was evacuated.

For a brief while, the entire island was overrun by escaped inmates. They controlled the silent husks that had once been the Narrows, a district that had been built near a prison and was now one itself. Eventually Batman and several SWAT teams had rounded up the inmates and forced them back to the Asylum. The whole island was under heavy air and sea surveillance, although no security teams roamed the land outside of the Asylum grounds.

He might've gotten there quicker if he still had access to the Tumbler. But it was dismantled, destroyed beyond repair by the Joker. The Bat-Pod was all that remained of it. It did its purpose well, but sometimes Bruce missed the firepower and protection that the Tumbler had provided. He had tipped Mr. Fox to order more. There were other ideas that he had regarding his arsenal. Soon enough, Batman would be flying through the skies…

Arkham Asylum loomed ahead of him in the distance. The building was ugly, a mixture of the gothic early 20th century building that it had been smashed together with the 21st century renovations that been added while Bruce was travelling the globe. In theory, it was built to help rehabilitate the mentally ill. The mob had used it as a means of protecting their prominent figures from prosecution. Figures such as Carmine Falcone, Victor Zsasz, and Jonathan Crane remained behind its bars. There was talk of a bill that was to be passed. The Harvey Dent Act, named after the city's fallen white knight. It was to eliminate organized crime within the city, to prevent the dismantled mobsters from reforming and to prevent future use of Arkham Asylum to hinder the legal process. _Perhaps, good is to come out from the darkness. _Bruce thought as he reflected on the night that he confronted Harvey.

Bruce departed the motorbike.

He walked to the closed gates. On the gates was a sign that stated the "Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane." Bruce felt the words and pushed open the gate.

Bruce walked to the Asylum. There was nothing but the sound of wind and the leaves on dying trees rustling around him.

As he got closer to the entrance door of the Asylum, he saw something white and powdery on the doorsteps. Curious, he bent down and examined the stains on his gloves.

"It's salt."

Batman looked up and saw the face of the Joker open the door. White facepaint splattered across his face, messy hair dyed grain, and two scars leaving a permanent smile on his face. The Glasgow smile. Bruce remembered. That was what those scars were called. The anarchist was once again dressed in the purple suit and green vest. Purple gloves hid hands that gave no identifiable prints. His eyes were blackened and his lips were painted red. Behind his haunting visage lay both hints of pure insanity and omnipotence. The Joker hadn't changed since Batman locked him up at Arkham.

"Why don't you sprinkle some on me, Batman? Don't I look just good enough to eat?" The Joker narrated in a menacing drawl of words.

"I'm here, Joker."

The world behind him closed.

Batman entered the madhouse.


	3. The Feast of Fools

**With this fanfic, I'm trying to do my best to maintain Morrison's original tale while trying to keep within the boundaries of Nolan's movies. To maintain the character of Heath Ledger's Joker best as I can, I've done some things like remove the very sexual dialogue of the Joker and implied tranvestism that Morrison gave him in the original. I've done my best to keep most of the dialogue and plot flow in line with the graphic novel, however.**

"Release the hostages, Joker." Batman demanded, trying to intimidate the Joker. But like always, Bruce's deep vocal shift when he was in the suit had no apparent effect on the man's posture, especially now on his playing field.

"You heard him, folks! Hit the trail!"

Hostages began to file out. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, guards, and other staff, all with vacant shell-shocked expressions in their eyes. Bruce wondered how many of these hostages were actually inmates having stolen uniforms in bids to escape. He would have to round them all up later, if that were true. _If he could make it out._ That was.

All that was left was a girl, and Batman instantly deduced that she must've been the girl named Pearl who the Joker had "mutilated" on their phone conversation. He must've lied, the scheming rat. The Joker was squeezing her shoulders while she snuffled in fear, feigning concern.

"'bye Pearl. Let's do it again sometime." He whispered into her ears along with other lines that Batman couldn't make out.

Pearl nervously glanced at Batman on her way out, her eyes shy and shamed. Not even a small scratch from one of his stupid knives he observed. He must've used her.

"But what about her eyes, Joker? You said…"

The Joker's face didn't show it, but his eyes filled with a manic murderous glee. His mouth subtly widened into a grin. Grabbing Batman by the shoulders, he snarled at the caped crusader:

"April Fools, Batman!" The Joker let out another round of his menacing laughter.

The hostages stood and watched as the doors of the Asylum closed for good, locking Batman inside the madhouse. It was like watching a prisoner on death row walk directly to their chair where his brain was to be fried or a fatal needle poked into his arm.

* * *

The safety of Gotham City with the signal that called for him in the sky and the Police Commissioner who worked with him were gone now. Batman was in uncharted waters. Bruce Wayne had taken a plunge and had sunk beyond the heart of darkness. Here are monsters and worse.

The reception hall was in shambles. The inmates must've had a little celebration after the riot, as streamers and balloons were discarded all over. A splotch of blood was across the reception desk, a discarded gun mere inches from it. The Joker was next to him, humming the tune to "People Are Strange" by The Doors and draped his arm around Batman's shoulder.

"Shut up." Bruce snapped at him.

The Joker mocked shock at Batman's order and continued to hum the tune.

"Loosen up, tight ass!"

Bruce screamed at him, his voice distorted with the diluted mess of emotions that the Joker brought out in him.

"TAKE YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF ME!"

"What's the matter? Have I touched a nerve?" The Joker was smiling wickedly at him. Batman threw the Joker's arm off his shoulder.

"How's Rachel's marriage with Harvey Dent going?"

"YOU MURDERING DENERATE!"

The Joker leered and laughed as he pushed open the doors. This was the dining area, Batman thought as he remembered the layout of Arkham Asylum.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Batman. You're in the real world now, and the lunatics have taken over the asylum…"

A grisly party awaited Batman. Flashing lights. More balloons and streamers. Where had Joker gotten his hands on all this? Lunacy had invited all the inmates together for a feast, regardless of their mental state. There was no sanity to be found in this hall. Bruce Wayne had long ago fallen from the cliff that was rationality, the world that made sense was no more.

"…so welcome to the feast of fools, Batman!"

Kissing while orgies raged on. Laughing and screaming. Victor Zsasz was huddled in a corner, sobbing while his head tucked into his knees. There were much more slashes and crosses on his arms now. Bodies of personnel not lucky enough to be taken hostage were scattered all over. A security guard was slumped over the table, Jervis Tetch pouring tea into his gaping mouth. A nurse hung by an ankle from the ceiling, her slit throat dripping blood onto cake. He saw Jonathan Crane calmly wipe her blood from the cake, before taking a bite.

A crescendo of madmen were chanting their nonsense.

NO ROOM NO ROOM FATHER DEAR FATHER I HAVE TO CONFESS TAKE TAKE TAKE EINSTEIN WAS WRONG! I'M THE SPEED OF LIGHT CRACKING THROUGH SHIVERY ATOMS AND GOD THE SKY WHIRLS AND WITHERS LIKE A MELTING RAINBOW! MILLIONS OF ROBINS! SOME SAY GOD IS AN INSECT. DEAD IN A BATH. WHO KILLED BAMBI? DIRT! DIRT! DIRT! I BELIEVE GOD IS IN MAN. Oranges?

Bruce felt disgust boiling within him. There were still some hostages. A security guard with tears rolling down his face, apparently catatonic. Two others were present, Batman assumed they had to be doctors. One of them, casually dressed, had his face smeared in facepaint, a red clown nose forced on him. The other was a woman in a slim mid-length black dress. Her feet were bare.

"Joker! I've had enough of this madness!" The male begged. The Joker noted this and wrapped his hands around the man's chin.

"Enough madness? Enough? And how do you measure madness? Not with rods and wheels and clocks surely? You do look quite pretty when you're mad…"

"I'm warning you…" The doctor tried to reassert his position.

The Joker plucked the red nose from the man and brought him in close. The man's eyes grew wide with terror.

"You're in no position to give warnings, Charlie. Not with YOUR guilty secret. Now sit down and stay down before I think of something funny to do with you." The doctor slumped into a chair, his face downcast.

"Who are these people, Joker? You told me you'd release all the hostages." Batman finally spoke up.

The woman answered for the clown. "Well… we insisted on staying, Batman. I'm Ruth Adams, I'm a psychotherapist here." She lit a cigarette and puffed on it.

The Joker in turn answered in turn for the defeated doctor in the chair. "And this is dear old Doc Cavendish, our current adminstrator. A man who just LOVES to administer current to ECT PATIENTS!"

Cavendish somehow found courage to speak up again.

"I have a duty to the state and the city of Gotham. I will not leave this asylum in the hands of… of MADMEN!"

"And while we're discussing duty, it looks like someone's just done theirs on the floor!" The Joker noted. He pranced to a table nearby, Batman following. He saw that Harvey Dent, split between handsome district attorney and scarred maniac on the other. He was shaking in a puddle of his own making.

"Oh Jesus, Harvey! Is it you again? Trying to ruin my new shoes, are you? Mad about Rachel, still?" Joker mocked the quivering Dent.

Dent hastily stammered. Batman noticed that in his hands were flipping through a deck of cards.

"I'm sorry… couldn't help it… it takes so long to decide… so many options… I'm really sorry. I think. I can't decide." Bruce Wayne was horrified to see what had become of his former friend and ally. He had believed in Harvey Dent… that the man was the pivotal step in saving Gotham from its corruption.

He wished Harvey had died the night they confronted him. That the fall had broken his neck for good. To spare him from the torment that had taken over his life. But by a twist of luck Harvey had survived. Dent had been in control of himself while on the manhunt for those he deemed responsible for Rachel's death and his scarring, using the coin only to decide the fate of his victims. But soon afterwards, Dent started to exhibit a split personality. Almost as if the coin was the gateway that decided who was in control for the day.

Gordon had Dent committed to the Asylum. He and Batman agreed to keep the truth of his crimes and condition from the people of Gotham, it would destroy their spirit for good. They had added the crimes to the Joker's list, but at what cost? The world had moved on…

Bruce felt pity for Harvey. Harvey was his failure, the one that he had failed to save. He had carried Harvey from the wrecked building, but the man was still set ablaze. Now, he was a wreck torn between the Harvey that Bruce knew and the maybe the Harvey that he really was the whole time. _I'm sorry, Harvey… _

"Please miss!" The Joker called out. "Two-Face has had an accident again!"

"Two-Face?" Batman inquired.

"It's a name the inmates call Dent, in reference to both his scarred half and dollar coin. We'd prefer if you call Harvey Dent by his real name." Ruth Adams objected.

"What have you done to Harvey?" Batman demanded.

"Done? He's being cured. This place is a mental hospital, after all. We're here to treat the mentally ill like Harvey, in case you'd forgotten given all the mobsters we've hosted."

Batman glared at her, and she glared back annoyed at him.

"As a matter of fact we've successfully tackled the obsession Harvey developed regarding duality. I'm sure you're familiar with his silver dollar coin – scarred on one side, unmarked on the other. He used it to make all his decisions when he turned to crime with it, as though it somehow represented contradictory halves of his personality."

"What we did was wean him off the coin and onto a die. That gave him six options instead of the former two. He did so well with the die that we've decided to move him to a pack of tarot cards. That's seventy-eight options open to him, Batman."

"Next, we plan to introduce him to the I-Ching. Soon he'll have a completely functional judgmental facility that doesn't rely so much on black and white absolutes."

Harvey was sprawled across the floor, having built the tarots into a house of cards. His hand was fingering one, gazing nonchalantly at it.

"But right now, he can't even make a simple decision like going to the bathroom without consulting the cards. Seems to be that you've effectively destroyed the man's personality, doctor."

She defended her work. "Sometimes we have to pull down in order to rebuild, Batman. Psychiatry's like that."

"You must admit it's hard to imagine that this place is conductive to anyone's mental health." Batman motioned to the chaos around them.

"You're going to hit me with local folklore, aren't you Batman? About the secret passages, the ghost of Dr. Amadeus Arkham, and bleeding doors. Just a bunch of Gothic crap." Ruth Adams blew smoke from her mouth.

"Well, you'll pardon me for saying so, but your techniques don't seem to have much effect on the Joker."

She was dumping into an ashtray. "The Joker's a special case. Some of us feel that he may be beyond treatment. In fact, we're not even sure if he can be properly defined as insane. He has nothing but lint and knives. His stories about his past are anything but consistent Nothing to give us anything to fully classify a profile of his psyche."

She had stepped on a spilled collage of Rorschach tests. Ruth bent to pick them up.

"It's quite possible that we may actually be looking at some kind of super sanity here. A brilliant new modification to human perception. More suited to urban life at the beginning of the twenty-first century."

"Tell that to his victims." Batman growled. _Rachel. She said she'd come for me, the day that Gotham wouldn't need Batman anymore. _

"Unlike you or I, Joker seems to have no control over the sensory information he's receiving from the outside world. He can only cope with the chaotic barrage of input by going with the flow. That's why some days he's a mischievous clown we sometimes see in treatment, others the psychopathic killer and anarchist that terrorized Gotham. He HAS no real personality. He creates himself each day. He sees himself as the lord of misrule and the world as a theater of the absurd."

_Because some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned, or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn. _Bruce recalled Alfred's words.

"We…AHH!" The Joker had snuck up on Dr. Adams, snatched an inkblot from her hands.

"Card games, Dr. Ruth? I just adore card games!" He grinned viciously and starred at the card.

"Well, I see two angels screwing in the stratosphere, a constellation of black holes, a big-logical process beyond the conception of man, a Jewish ventriloquist locked in the trunk of a red Chevrolet… What about you Batman?" The Joker flipped the inkblot to face Batman.

"What do you see?"

Bruce gazed long and deeply at the card in front of him. The ink was in blots of red and blue, forming purple when they met. Slowly, it darkened and came together to form something that flew at him.

A flutter of wings, a hiss in the darkness.

It was the Bat, nightmarish and all-consuming.

Rage and terror are its fuel.

A childhood, over at age eight as Thomas and Martha Wayne lie dead at young Bruce's knees.

His parents had taught him a lesson as they lay on the street having died for no reason. No reason at all. Bruce realized that the world made sense only when you forced it to.

Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot.

I must be a creature. I must be a creature of the night.

I must be black. My disguise must strike terror.

I shall become a bat.

I am Batman.


	4. The Game Begins At Midnight

Bruce maintained the stone-like expression on Batman's face. He couldn't let the Rorschach test betray anything to the Joker.

"I see nothing." Bruce told the Joker in a blank voice. The sociopath leaned over to Batman and leered.

"Not even the good Gotham District Attorney being roasted as you drag him out of the burning building? How about his pretty little assistant scattered in bits across the wreckage?" Other inmates were gathering around them now. They seemed extremely restless. Bruce grew tense. He couldn't discern what the sick mind of the Joker planned.

Two bumbling rotund twins bound together via electrical wires shouted at the Joker. A man with his head encased by a black mask and others observed the Dark Knight and Agent of Chaos. Bruce recognized the man in the mask. Roman Sionis, a humiliated corporate head with particular loathing of Wayne Enterprises had organized several petty criminals into a small gang after the fall of Falcone's organization. Batman had brought him in, but Sionis still had enough connections to secure a place in Arkham instead of prison.

"Stop wasting time, you ugly prancing bastard!" One of the twins continuously shouted in a growingly irate tone.

"He is ours too, you know." The other twin said in a more rational and calm tone of voice.

Roman tapped the Joker on the shoulder. The Joker flipped around and stared deep at him, patiently waiting for his request.

"I say we take off his mask. I want to see his REAL face." To which the Joker backhanded Sionis. The Joker spoke up again, a noticeable tone of irritation and disgust with his fellow inmates.

"Oh, don't be so predictable. I'm disappointed in all of you, honestly. That IS his real face." The Joker howled with delight while pointing to Batman.

The Joker looked thoughtful and gazed long at Batman. Minutes ticked from a clock. Bruce was readying his body into position, in case the inmates tried for him. The Joker was speaking.

"And I want to go much deeper than that."

"I want him to know what it's like to have sticky fingers pick through the dirty corners of his mind. Introduce a little anarchy to his subconscious." The Joker walked to Dr. Adams and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Let's start with a word association test, shall we? What do you say Ruthie?"

The doctor looked apprehensive and looked at Batman nervously. Bruce was started to put together what the madman had in plan, he had to prepare himself mentally for the trial…

"I don't really want to do this…" Dr. Adams protested.

"Go ahead, Dr. Adams, I'm not afraid. It's just words." Batman told her. Sticks and stones…

* * *

Dr. Adams and Batman were seated across from each other at one of the vacant tables in the Arkham Asylum dining hall. The Joker inquisitively strolled around them, eager to see her pluck at the dark corners of the Batman's minds. This would be much better than just killing him, he decided. The doctor lit a cigarette, still nervous about the whole matter.

"That's the spirit, Batman!" The Joker smiled, his scars curling. "I like a man who thinks he can take the pressure!"

Bruce sat stiffly, his hands clasping the table. Smoke rose lazily from the cigarette as Adams took it from her mouth. She said the first word.

"Mother." Bruce felt his first clench. He tried to prevent the memories from invading to no avail. He replied.

"Pearl." The necklace falls, pearls separating and rolling across the cold alleyway as the rain falls. A body collapses.

"Handle."

"Revolver." The gun fires two times taking life with both shots.

"Gun."

"Father." Batman croaked. His defenses were crumbling.

"Father?" The doctor asked him. She too seemed curious underneath the frightened tone of her voice.

"Death." Bruce Wayne was on his knees as the gunman who he found out was called Joe Chill flees. Thomas and Martha are dead in front of him. He is alone. His parents are dead for no reason. All his fault. Because he got scared and asked them to leave the theater…

"End."

"Stop. Stop…" Bruce felt isolated as his head bowed. He felt himself slump in defeat. The doctor looked at him apologetically, unaware of the true depth…

The Joker exploded in malicious laughter.

* * *

Batman looked grim, trying to fool the Joker into thinking that his tests had no effect on him whatsoever. His cape was wrapped around him like an act of self-protection. The other inmates continued to act restless. The Joker pranced over to him.

"Time to begin the evening's entertainment, I think. If you're feeling up to it."

"Up to what?" The Joker leaned over to Batman, a hint of diabolicalness in his eyes.

"A nice little game of hide and seek. You have one hour, Batman, and there's no way out of the building. One hour before all your friends come looking for you."

The Joker rattled off the names of fellow inmates, like an announcer introducing a circus act.

"There's Jonathan Crane going all Scarecrow in his head again. Basil "Clayface" Karlo and John Dee, of course." The last name escaped Batman, but he remembered Karlo. An ailing actor who had suffered a mental breakdown when he found out one of his early hits was being remade without his consultation. Karlo in the form of his film roles went on a killing spree on the film set, but Batman had brought him in.

"Dee, or Dr. Destiny as he prefers to be called, seems so frail in that wheelchair but all he has to do is look at you and you stop being real. He does so want to look at you, Batman."

Bruce felt disorientated and confused, but Batman's iron gaze didn't flicker.

"Oh, and let's not forget Gotham's own infamous Killer Croc! He came out of his solitary confinement this morning, dragging chains behind him. They all want to see you, why don't you just run along now?"

Batman tried to assert his power, the force that he imposed.

"I don't take orders from you, Joker." Joker signed and shook his head. The Joker walked over to the surviving security guard who had remained catatonic.

"Well…" The Joker picked a discarded pistol from the floor. All eyes were on the Joker now as he strolled to the weeping guard.

"This guy goes into the hospital okay? His wife's just had a baby and he can't wait to see them both. So he meets the doctor and he says, 'oh, Doc, I've been so worried. How are they?'

And the doctor smiles and says, "They're fine. Just fine. Your wife's been delivered a healthy baby boy and they're both in tip-top form."

"You're one lucky guy." The Joker told his joke with a hint of theatricality, like this was a stand-up routine.

"So the guy rushes into the maternity ward with his flowers. But it's empty. His wife's bed is empty!" The Joker had reached the guard. He stepped back and extended his gun-holding arm. He looked as if he expected a drumroll for the punchline.

'Doc?' He says and turns around and the doctor and all the nurses wave their arms and scream in his face:

APRIL FOOLS! YOUR WIFE'S DEAD AND YOUR BABY'S A SPASTIC!"

The Joker laughed sadistically, chilling Batman's blood. The Joker waved his free arms and pulled the trigger. With a splatter of blood, the security guard lay sprawled across the floor. Smoke rose from the corpse. The Joker turned to face Batman.

"Get it?" He gleefully asked. Strands of green hair flopped across his white face. He looked satisfied and merciless. The Joker tossed the gun aside and reached for something. A familiar knife.

"Now, Batman…" The Joker began. He was grasping Dr. Adams, as he held the blade against the corners of her mouth. Her body had stiffened and a pleading glance was tossed at Batman.

"Run."

Batman glared at the Joker, a lethal gaze of pure hatred.

"The game ends at midnight, Batman. Run, or Ruthie here learns how I got my scars!"

"Run!"

Batman broke through a set of doors. Like a gaping mouth, the whole of Arkham opened to welcome him.


	5. The Dark Knight Falls

Batman raced blindly through the doors. As he burst into the corridors of Arkham Asylum fleeing from an invisible terror, his mind was elsewhere. Bruce was a child again, outside a local cinema. Posters for a deceptively harmless family movie. Bruce Wayne was sobbing uncontrollably while Martha dragged him out angrily.

"_How dare you embarrass me that way, Bruce!"_

"_It's only a MOVIE, for God's sake!"_

"_It's not real."_

Batman ran through the halls of Arkham. His face had twisted with the pain of the repressed memory. Bruce continued to weep outside the movie theater, his mother offering no sympathy.

"_Bruce, I'm WARNING you! If you don't stop crying and act like a grown up, I'm leaving you right here."_

Batman faltered, leaning against a wall for support. His hands clutched his head, a distorted mirror above him. Batman looked up to the mirror, seeing the dark reflection of his mask.

"_Understand? I'm leaving you right here."_

The world seemed almost black and white as the young Bruce stared back at the haunting visage of the man he was to be become. It was starting again, the older but still anxious Bruce Wayne asking for his parents to leave the theater. The performers in the bat costumes had frightened him, but they were gone. The Waynes were headed out Crime Alley…

Batman gritted his teeth as he tried to fight off the memory. He lashed out and shattered the mirror in front of him, glass flying and cutting his arm. The recollection wouldn't stop.

"_Leaving you."_

The mugger, bled to the lowest chasms by the corruption and economic strife of Gotham, approaches them. He wants their valuables.

Daddy tries to prevent the situation by giving the gunman what he wants, but the gunman points the gun at Mommy. Daddy sees this and gets in the way. Thomas Wayne crumples in a heap, to the stunned horror of his wife and son. Batman grasped a large shard of the shattered mirror.

"_Right here."_

Mommy's screaming now, and the gunman doesn't like that. He shoots her once and snatches the pearls from her neck. Batman's groaning as he begins to pierce his right hand with the shard of glass. The gunman flees, leaving Bruce alone with his parents. As his father holds his hands for the last time, he tells Bruce to not be afraid.

The shard goes through flesh. Batman grits his teeth rigorously as it devastatingly makes it through his hand, coming out covered in blood. The memory is falling away in pieces…

Drops of red blood splatter on the floor. They spread like paint. A wave of blood. Batman at last rips the shard from his hand. It'll be useless now, unless he gets out. Finds Alfred. Medical care. Fix it.

One night in Crime Alley, a childhood ends.

Daddy's dead.

Mommy's dead.

Brucie's dead.

As Bruce Wayne weakly limps through the halls of Arkham Asylum, his good hand against the wall for support, he hears his own voice not Batman's weakly ask.

"Mommy?"

* * *

"Mother! Oh, God! Mother!" An inmate of Arkham was transfixed on one of the portable television screens that had belonged to a guard watching _Psycho_. "Blood! Blood!" He remained unaware of the growing tension in the room, as other inmates were crowding around the Joker.

"I say we go after him now!" Roman Sionis insisted as the Joker gazed outside, at the gathering force of police cars.

"Listen, we promised him an hour!" The Joker reprimanded him. "He's only been gone ten minutes!"

"This is ridiculous!" Achilles Milo grumbled as the Joker and Black Mask argued next to him. He had been a renowned chemist, but had used his knowledge of chemistry and medicine for criminal purposes. In an attempt to kill Batman in the past, he had ended up exposed to one of his own gases, which induced temporary madness. It had gotten him locked up in Arkham. He had yet to convince anyone that the gas had worn off.

"What do you think, Dent?" Milo turned and asked Harvey Dent who was gazing longingly at the full moon in the night sky. The former district attorney's hideous scarred side faced Milo, the handsome blonde obscured.

"The moon is so beautiful." Harvey said without stammering.

"What?" Milo gaped.

"It's a big silver dollar, flipped by God. And it landed scarred side up, see? So he made the world." Harvey explained without looking away from the luminous sphere above them.

"Jesus Christ!" Can't I get a decent conversation in this place!" Milo complained, hoping that soon someone would see that he wasn't mad anyone. Cured, that he didn't belong here.

"You're all insane!" He screamed. In the background, Dr. Charles Cavendish was escorting Ruth Adams from the dining room by force. Professor Milo threw his hands up in frustration and despair, leaving Harvey Dent to stare at the moon. The deck of tarot cards that had replaced his scarred coin had been perfectly assembled into a house of cards.

The Joker was deep in contemplation. He felt a sharp tugging on the tails of his coat, and he heard the sandpaper-like tone of Jervis Tetch moan about Batman.

"JO-ker! We're BORED!" The short man repeatedly griped as he tugged over and over on the Joker's coat.

"Oh, all right then!" The Joker turned to face the other inmates, his scars twisting into a wicked grin.

"Let's just pretend it's been an hour."


	6. Hunt the Dark Knight

Bruce found himself at the mouth of an ominous and dimly lit hallway. At the other end, someone was approaching. _Not now… inmates have started hunting. One hand useless, don't know if I can handle them in a straight-up fight. I'll have to be quick and deadly._

A deformed, decrepit figure slithered towards Bruce. An avatar of filth and contagion, the personification of pestilence and infection, disease on two legs with a touch of instant contagion. Basil Karlo had stripped himself nude. His skin appeared rotting, lesions dripping with foul fluids. His hair had withered away, what little remained was just a few messy strands mussed around. He had covered his body with clay, paint, and other substances, leaving behind a large streak as he walked with one hand against a cracking wall. The words Tunnel of Love had been etched alongside a heart into it long ago.

"Sick. Sick. Sick."

"My skin is sick, Bat-Man."

Karlo's trail of blistered and dripping paint grew as he got closer to Bruce.

"It's rotten and seeping."

"Only you can help me."

Bruce backed against the wall of an alcove, praying that he could make himself unseen. Karlo had done many things to his body that had caused its decay into the pitiable avatar of filth that was eerily reaching for him. Bruce knew that he couldn't risk finding out what all those were. Karlo's eyes lit up. He had spotted Batman.

"I just want to SHARE my disease!" Basil Karlo licked his chapped and peeling lips, as the mess of bubbly and dripping flesh that constituted his face faced the caped crusader. A mad ecstasy and desperation were in his eyes.

"Don't touch me." Bruce growled at the clay face of Karlo. The pale felon's luminous hand reached to grab him but Bruce managed to draw far enough to avoid the touch. The wood that Karlo had touched was rotting to a running pulp. _Could he have some sort of acid on him? Have to avoid the hand, but I have to take him down somehow. _

The hand tried to stroke him again, narrowly missing Batman's arm. The fingers were dripping pus, some of which fell on the padding. Desperate, Bruce ducked under another attempt by Karlo to grab him.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Batman yelled as he lashed out with his foot. The boot connected with Basil Karlo's gut, knocking the clay-stained man back.

Basil fell back winded, allowing Bruce to move into a poised crouch. Basil was leaning against the wall for balance, heavily. His legs were straight, making a triangle between the wall and the floor. Bruce rushed at Basil with a predatory swiftness, ready to finish the disgusting filth once and for all. Basil saw him and shrieked.

"No… wait… Bat-Man.. don't"

"I didn't mean it… I.."

With the precision and expertise of a surgeon, Bruce kicked down Basil Karlo. Karlo was crawling away from Batman in pain, whimpering softly. Batman was rushing after him, appearing unstoppable and terrifying.

"OH JESUS CHRIST BATMAN YOU BROKE MY LEGS"

"BATMAN OH MY-"

With one final hefty kick, Basil Karlo went limp. Batman ran off past him, down the tunnel, into another corridor masked in cruel and ragged shadows.

* * *

A buzz of an electric wheelchair echoed in the emptiness of the cell that belonged to Basil Karlo. A gnarled hand shook as it operated the control buttons of the wheelchair. The new contestant was approaching the cell and pushed the door open. A sibilant, high whisper pierced the darkness of the cell.

"Clayface? Clayface, where are you?"

John Dee saw nothing but the outlines of an army of store dummies in the murkiness of the cell. Store dummies that had arrived this morning when they took over. He did not enter, Basil would not appreciate people messing with his personal harem. Behind John Dee, an unseen shadow was cast. The horned shadow grew larger as he approached John Dee.

"Don't answer then, you dirty rotting bastard! I don't need you!" John Dee snapped at the empty cell.

"I can easily find someone else to-"

Dee heard movement, and whipped around his head. He opened his mouth in alarm as the boot of the Batman smashed the back of his wheelchair.

"-push me. NO!"

Out of control, the wheelchair sped rapidly towards a flight of stairs. Dee's eyes grew broad with horror. He shrieked again and again as the first set of steps grew closer.

"NO!"

Dee was thrown from the wheelchair as it tipped over the first step. He screamed with hopeless agony as he tumbled over and over down the stairs. The wheelchair followed him in a chaotic descent, the two of them crashing at the bottom. A wheel spun idiotically as John Dee lay motionless and crumpled. John Dee didn't mind. In dreams, he walked again. The grim silhouette of a man gazed down at the broken cripple. _He's not dead. Good. _

There was no time to rest. Karlo and Dee had both been accounted for, but he could hear the sounds of metal scraping against solid stone floor. Bruce glanced over his shoulder. His eyes filled with alarm.

_If he manages to get even a small dose on me, I'll be done for. _Bruce wildly searched for a spot to hide as the ill-omened form staggered around the corner.

A man in a business suit and brand new Armani shoes shambled into view. His features were hidden by a brown sack stitched together. He carried along his side a scythe. The tip of scythe dragged across the floor behind the man, striking a string of tiny sparks. The man continued to move, lifting up his scythe and bringing it down again. He had a name… what was it? Jonathan Crane… that wasn't correct. Scarecrow was more like it. He lurched across the floor in a disjointed and spastic gait.

"It's time for your check-up, Batman. A free diagnosis and psychological profiling, just for you." Scarecrow called out as he slid past a slightly ajar cell door. The Scarecrow shambled past the door. Bruce breathed in temporary relief. Bruce continued the look out the crack that the door formed, waiting until the Scarecrow was safely out of sight.

He had become aware that something on the floor, at the feet where he crouched. His fingers ran across the floor, like a blind man reading Braille. There were indentations on the floor. The room was unlit. His hands motioned along the wall until they located the light switch. Bruce flicked it, illuminating the cell. His eyes widened with incredulous surprise as he looked down.

"My god."

Bruce gaped down at the mind-staggering, surreal sight of the cell floor. Words had been scratched into the surface. Millions of words in a circular pattern from outer rim to center were cut in stone. An entire book's worth of carving. What inmate could've done this? Bruce determined that the markings weren't fresh, they had to be decades old at this point.

Bruce emerged from the cell ready to continue his flight down the corridor, but he caught sight of another shadow emerging on the wall ahead. He saw that the shadow was cast from another corridor, running off at a right angle to Bruce's current location. The shadow grew larger. Bruce didn't want to risk another confrontation. He ducked back into the cell with the stone carvings.

Roman Sionis rounded the corner and headed into the now empty corridor. His right hand gripped a pistol. His black mask contorted into frustration. He thought he had heard something, but Batman was nowhere. Just the unconscious John Dee at the bottom of a staircase and scrap marks left by Jonathan Crane.

On the other side of the door, Bruce stood warily. He had ended up in a new environment, the cell no longer present. He stood stiff and upright, as he took in the surroundings. A small hallway, with two doors at opposite ends. The doors were mirrors, reflecting each other. An illusion of a never ending hallway. Bruce walked towards the other end, an infinitely repeated reflection of Batman walking closer to the door. He pushed the mirror, entering a room filled with swirling smokes and multicolored light.

"Twinkle, Twinkle, little Bat!"

The arrangement of the room was an anarchic muddle. Black and white chess pieces were scattered across the floor. There was a peculiar ambience granted by the ornate tasseled cushions that lay across the room. A liquid slide projector filled the room with a psychedelic barrage of swirls and marbled light. Bruce smelt sweet and cloying scents in the room. Bruce glimpsed to disbelief a giant teapot and next to it a huge baroque mirror. Bruce had walked directly in a hallucinogenic nightmare, straight out of the 60s. In the center of the room was an Amanita mushroom, on top it a cross-legged man with a hookah pipe in his hand.

"How I wonder what you're at! I'm so glad you could make it. I have so many things to tell you."

Jervis Tetch. Delusional. Schizophrenic.

After the Scarecrow, a new breed of criminal had sprouted in Gotham. Most of these costumed maniacs with monikers like Crazy Quilt and Pack Rat had just been overly egotistical individuals who had decided to turn to flamboyant but entirely harmless crimes for their moment of fame before they were nabbed and sent to county prisons, left to reflect on their choices in life. They were harmless, just an annoying diversion for Batman in his quest to take down the mob. That all changed when the Joker showed up and began murdering city officials. The other crazies followed in suit shortly after his incarceration. Jervis Tetch, who believed himself to be the Mad Hatter from Alice, was one of them.

"You must be feeling quite FRAGILE by now, I expect. This house, it… DOES things to the mind. FFFFP!" Tetch capped off by taking a large puff on his pipe, exhaling smoke. His eyes were heavy and drugged. His teeth were disgustingly yellow. His hair hung in spare and greasy straggles, underneath a battered top hat. His Victorian style clothing were soiled and stained.

"Now where was I? Where am I? Where will I be?" The Mad Hatter crookedly smiled at Batman. Bruce was at a loss at how to handle Tetch. Violence was an option, but in his drugged state Tetch appeared to be of little harm.

"_Ah yes _the apparent disorder of the universe is simply a HIGHER order, an IMPLICATE order beyond our comprehension." He was holding in his other hand a girl's doll. Dressed in a vague light blue dress, Jervis smiled with lewd delight as he exposed the plastic legs to Batman.

"That's why children…_INTEREST_ me. They're all **MAD**, you see. But in each of them is an implicate adult. Order out of chaos. Or is it the other way around?" Jervis inquisitively asked the silent Batman. He continued to fondle the plastic doll.

"To know them is to know myself."

"Little girls, especially."

"Little _**BLONDE**_ girls." With this, the Hatter's eyes dropped and he started to cry.

"Oh God. God help us all!"

He looked up at Batman, with a tinge of fearful wondering in his tear-filled eyes.

"Sometimes… sometimes I think the Asylum is a _**HEAD. **_We're inside a huge head that dreams us all into being. Perhaps it's _**your **_head, Batman."

Bruce's lip curled. He started to walk towards Jervis. To immense shock, the Hatter started to fade out, replaced by Batman's reflection. Like a ghost, the Hatter had grown faint and see-through…

"Arkham is a _**LOOKING GLASS.**_"

The Mad Hatter was gone. Bruce was left looking at his reflection, perplexed at what had just occurred.

"And _**we **_are _**you.**_"

The lights swirled. Music playing in the room was reaching a crescendo. Batman touched his hand's reflection. He pushed open a door.

The music and lights were gone. Bruce was puzzled. He was back in the corridor where he had found the room, the door closed. Maybe the Hatter's image had been a prerecording, maybe there had been something in the gas. He couldn't stick around and investigate. He had to find a way out. What would Gotham do without him?

* * *

Bruce moved towards an open door. It was like a dream, unable to control his actions. Bruce didn't want to approach the room but he remained forced by destiny to approach it. Two low-quality plaster Greek-style columns flanked the door. Scrawled above the door, in bold and large child-like letters were 'Discover Thyself' in Greek. It was the Electroconvulsive Therapy room, lit by an eerie electric blue light.

A figure was strapped to the therapy couch. It jerked violently, and Bruce saw to his horror it was a partially stripped security guard. The clothes and equipment of the man lay in a messy pile next to the couch. A naked man, kneeling on the floor, reached for the equipment that produced the shock.

The man turned to look at Batman. His eyes were broad and patterned, his mouth grinning insanely. He was dressed in a torn toga, two circles with dots having been drawn onto the chest of his toga. His face was covered in a rushed application of theatrical paint and powder. Flies were buzzing around the room. The guard on the couch stared at Batman with a deranged grin, almost as if to say to leave us alone. That he was enjoying the shocks.

Maxie Zeus. Another one of Arkham's occupants with severe delusions. Unlike Jervis Tetch, he had found his thing in Greek mythology.

"Ah. A pilgrim." Maxie noted at Batman. The room around them was lit by an abrasive electric radiance that seemed to emanate from Maxie himself. Fitting with his godly namesake. Flies continued to buzz.

"Come into my presence, pilgrim."

"Gaze upon the lord thy god."

"More. Please. Do it again." The guard in the electric couch begged Maxie.

Maxie ignored the guard and pulled a lidded oak barrel towards himself, never looking away from Batman. Flies clustered around the barrel.

"Zeus Arrhenothelus. Part man, part woman. Electricity enflames my brain. Voltage. Current. The fire of heaven. Look here."

Zeus proudly pulled the lid off the barrel and the flies congregated on its contents, filling the barrel with the sounds of buzzing. Zeus had a smug and self-important expression on his face.

"I've **SAVED **all of it. There's power in it, you see. Electricity." Maxie Zeus hugged his barrel. He held his face over the top and breathed in lovingly. His eyes filled with bliss. Batman just watched, unsure what to do.

"Ahh. Gift of my body. Divine. Fertile. It shall transform the dry lands of Africa into the perfumed orchards of Paradise and men will worship me anew."

Maxie Zeus bowed his head towards Batman. He stared, a hint of menace. The eyes were bloodshot and bruised.

"For I am **ZEUS. **Lord of Ect. God of electrical retribution."

Maxie plunged both of hands deep into the barrel. It was like a ritual, an act to the gods, and he acted with uptight seriousness. Disturbed flies angrily rose from the barrel.

"I give, so that thou shouldst give. Here, my gift to you Batman."

Maxie Zeus had something in his hands. Batman didn't look at it. The man was beginning to look more dangerous by the minute.

"Do you want power?"

"I can give you power."

Batman walked away. Zeus stumbled after him, in a drunk-like swagger. Flies circled around his hand, darkened by what was in the barrel. He reached after Batman with his filthy hand.

"Eat. Drink. This is my body! This is my blood!"

Batman walked. He headed towards the exit of the electric therapy room. It was just a bizarre encounter, one that wasn't worth exerting the force to solve. Maxie would be taken care of once the Swat swarmed in. Once he got out. Maxie hung at the door frame, pleading for him to return. He acted as if he was confined to the room.

"The _**AC/DC **_altar waits! Let me know you in the form of a shower of sparks! **WAIT!**"

Batman walked out of his sight.


	7. The Dark Tower

Bruce rounded a corner. It seemed that the Joker was right, that there was no way out of the building. But he had to find a way out, somehow. What was Gotham do without him? The day when he would no longer be needed felt distant and disappearing.

A small trail of blood. The red spots led directly to a wall, abruptly cut off. How curious. Bruce bent down, examining the blood. There had to be some sort of secret passage, how else could the blood trail have ended like this? He was the world's greatest detective, after all. He could find it.

_**From the journal of Amadeus Arkham**_

_**I have been shown the path. I must follow where it leads. Like Parsifal, I must confront the unreason that threatens me.**_

Behind Bruce, a dripping mass of muscle and bone slithered from out of the darkness. A pair of glistening red eyes opened. Bruce heard footsteps behind him, growing louder and louder.

_I must go alone into the Dark Tower. Without a backward glance and face the dragon within._

Bruce quickly whirled around, and rolled out of the way in time to avoid having his neck snapped by a hefty scale-like arm. The beast in front of him snarled, eager to taste the flesh of Batman.

_**I have only one fear. What if I am not strong enough to defeat it? What then?**_

Waylon Jones, the cannibal. Serial killer, the infamous Killer Croc of Gotham City. Out of all the enemies that Bruce had encountered during his tenure as Batman thus far, Jones had to be the most intimidating. The Killer Croc was seven and a half feet tall, his dark skin suffering some sort of skin defect that had caused it to thicken and resemble a reptile's scales. The Croc had filed all of his teeth into razor-sharp points. Some people claimed he had been abandoned in the sewers as a baby, others claimed he was a government test escapee, others claimed an escaped freakshow performer. His origin didn't matter. What mattered was that he had turned to crime, in Batman's city. What mattered was that Batman's life hung in the very balance in this very encounter.

Bruce's self-inflicted injury to his own hand reared its head as he tried to battle Croc. If he was at his full potential, without the injury holding him back, perhaps he could take down the beast. Bruce launched the blades stored in the suit's gauntlets at Croc. The beast made a sound that was almost like laughing as the embedded blades barely seemed to make a dent. Bruce hastily reached for a smoke bomb but Croc struck him with an uppercut.

The Kevlar padding lessened the force of the blow, but Bruce still was sent thudding against a wall. Croc was on him, delivering a merciless beating. Bruce tried to recover, escape from the onslaught. But Croc was too strong. Too fast. Aside from maneuverability, the upgraded suit offered increased protection. Bruce fondly recalled Mr. Fox's words, even as the blood dribbled from his mouth. _Should do fine against cats. _The armor couldn't last him forever…

_**The drug takes hold. I feel small and afraid. Perhaps I've done the wrong thing. **_

Bruce had prided himself as being a cunning master of the shadows. The training by Ra's had taught him everything he needed to know. But here, pitted against brute and mindless strength he had found himself overwhelmed. A final backhanded blow by Croc sent Bruce to his knees. The monster was lifting him.

_**Somewhere, not far away, the dragon hauls its terrible weight through the corridors of the asylum. I am borne up on a wave of perfect terror.**_

Lightning flashed as the glass window detonated into millions of shards. Bruce felt himself falling as he glimpsed the white streak. _Not now. I can't die like this. This can't be the end. Gotham needs me. _

_**And the world explodes. There is nothing to hold onto. No anchor. Panic stricken, I flee. I run blindly through the madhouse.**_

Bruce desperately grabbed out. His arm snatched onto a hanging ledge. Glass rained down on him, cutting where shard met skin.

His arm was wracked with pain. Bruce gritted his teeth. Lighting flashed again, illuminating the architecture around him. His arm begged him to let go. Bruce ignored the demands. He hauled himself up.

_**And I cannot even pray. For I have no god.**_

Bruce dragged himself to the rooftop of Arkham Asylum. Bruce glanced up at the statue in front of him. His face lit with a mix of awe and sudden inspiration. Against the chaotic and churning sky, the statue of St. Michael was a beacon of grandeur and hope. In his sculpted arm St. Michael gripped a metal spear. It was old and dull, decades of rust having eaten away. But it would have to do. Bruce pulled the spear from its foundations.

_**Doors open and close, applauding my flight. Keyholes bleed. A choir of sexually maimed children sings my name over and over again. Arkham. Arkham. Arkham.**_

Moonlight slanted in from the broken window where Croc had thrown Batman out. The beast was satisfied with his kill, slouching to where he had entered the corridor. But he saw a shadow being cast, completely impossible.

In his red eyes, Croc glanced up and saw the silhouette of the Batman in the skylight. Above him, the dark knight crashed through the glass, something long and pointed aiming at Croc.

_**I'm falling.**_

Bruce tugged the spear against Croc's neck. He could block the windpipe, knock out the inmate. The surprise of shock was wearing off. Croc was enraged now, his thrashings throwing Batman off.

Even as Bruce collided against the wall, he didn't lose his grip to the spear. Croc was rushing him for a killing blow. Bruce rose into a crouching position, swinging the spear as Croc came at him.

_**Oh mother, what tree is this? What wounds are these?**_

The momentum of Croc's charge had impaled him on the rusty point. Bruce grimaced, as the huge force of Croc embraced him. The spear betrayed his grasp. The blunt end pushed into his side. Bruce let out an agonized cry of struggle.

_**I am Attis on the pine. Christ on the cedar. Odin on the world-ash.**_

The spear punctured Bruce's leg, emerging from the flesh on the other side.

_**Hung on the windy tree for nine whole nights. Wounded with the spear.**_

Bruce fought through the pain, trying to force the bulk of the spear into Killer Croc.

_**Dedicated to Odin.**_

Croc had his own plans. The brute had taken hold of the spear, trying to lift Batman again. Bruce found back, in spite of the enormity of his hurting. The two opponents faced each other, a grotesque tug of war.

_**Myself to myself. I must see my reflection, to prove I still exist. **_

Bruce tugged at the spear. Without warning, the rusty weapon snapped in two identical pieces. Croc stumbled backwards, grunting in surprise. Batman was hurled backwards.

_**Until I stand revealed in the glass and I stare into old familiar eyes. MOTHER!**_

Croc backed into another fragile window. For a second he was there, backed against the frame his arms spread like a crucifixion. Glass broke. Croc's body was a blur, falling from sight. Bruce heard a chilling, inhuman scream.

_**I must have fainted then, for it was morning when I next open my eyes. No longer able to tell where the dragon ended.**_

Bruce staggered away. He tugged the broken spear shaft, his leg a bleeding mess. He limped, leaning against the wall for support. Torn and bloody, his teeth torn into a stoic scowl. Wounded, at the doors of defeat, and yet he pushed on. There would be a day when Gotham would no longer have a Batman to protect it. But this would not the day. He would not let the Arkham Asylum claim from him the people he had sought to save.

_**And I begin.**_

Bruce stared long at the brick wall. The trail of blood disappeared into it. He was starting to piece things together…

_**Yet am I not the hero, the man of destiny? Have I not confronted the great dragon? Where then is my grail? My treasure horde?**_

With his last good hand, Bruce punched through the fake wall breaking it into splinters.

_**My final reward?**_

Bruce's eyes grew. He stood alone in the smashed entrance. A preserved room, with a four poster bed and various pieces of old furniture. The room was covered in a sepia tone.

"Good evening, Batman."

He had been expecting the Joker or even Dent. But to Bruce's growing horror, he saw Dr. Charles Cavendish clutching in his hands a bloody penknife. He was holding Dr. Adams hostage.

"Dr. Cavendish."

"Don't come near him, Batman. He… cut… me. Just keep back." The hostage pleaded, her eyes frozen with fear. Something dawned on Bruce as he glimpsed the wedding dress that Cavendish had donned.

"You free the inmates, you allowed this to happen. Why, Cavendish?" Maybe Bruce could scare him into backing down. He was not in the position to fight off the man, not with the wounds from the hard night.

The doctor looked crazed and he barked at Batman.

"Now listen, I only did what had to be done! You read the book on the table beside you and you'll see."

Bruce slowly picked up a leather-bound book from a dusty table littered with cobwebs, glaring down Cavendish. The mad doctor's eyes were filled with a mix of fear and hatred.

"Go on, Batman. It's Amadeus Arkham's journal. Go on. Read it. I've marked the place for you. Read it, you'll see."

Bruce opened the book. He wondered when this trial would end.


	8. A Serious House on a Serious Earth

'_But I don't want to go among mad people' Alice remarked._

'_Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'We're all mad here. I'm mad, you're mad.'_

'_How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice._

'_You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'_

**_Lewis Carroll_**

**'_Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'_**

* * *

**From the journal of Amadeus Arkham, founder of the asylum:**

In the years following my father's death, I think it's true to say that the house became my whole world. During the long period of mother's illness, the house often seemed so vast, so confidently real, that by comparison I felt little more than a ghost haunting its corridors.

Scarcely aware that anything could exist beyond those melancholy walls. Until the night of 1901, when I first caught a glimpse of that other world. The world on the dark side.

I recall ascending the staircase, a dining tray in hand. A mushroom soup with two triangular slices of bread. In a corner there had been a round and convex mirror. It had taken my face and distorted it into something frightful. A dark, elongated parody of myself. I remember knocking on mother's chamber.

"Mother? Mother? It's me. I've brought you something to eat." Those were my words. I was only eleven at the time.

"Please. I think you should try to eat some of this."

My mother was sitting upright in her big bed, smiling at me in a chilling manner. She was only in her early thirties, but the flow of time had arrived early for her. Her hair was prematurely graying, her eyes having sunken. Her hands were clutching the blanket as the two family dogs, Irish wolfhounds, whimpered at bedside. Something seemed to be moving in her mouth. She struggled to speak while keeping her mouth shut.

"mmf-eaten. I've eaten. I've eaten."

Her beautiful amber eyes filled with guilt that I had to observe her like this. As her mouth gaped slightly, I recoiled at what came out. A shower of beetles in various forms fell from her lips to the counterpane. Her tongue hung out, lapping greedily. Beetles scrambled, trying to escape as her hands stuffed the insects back into her mouth.

That was the moment when I felt truly alone, as the dining tray fell from my hands, scattering its contents across the floor.

In front of me, mother stared panic stricken into a corner of the room. She held her hands in front of her face – thumbs together, fingers spread out. Her hands cast a huge, bat-like shadow behind her.

Many years later, when I became aware of the significance of the beetle as a symbol of rebirth, I realized that she was simply trying to protect herself from something, in the only way that made sense to her. But even then, I think I understood that mother had been born again, into that other world. A world of fathomless signs and portents. Of magic and terror. And mysterious symbols.

* * *

I return to the family home on a cool spring morning in 1920, shortly after mother's funeral. She opened her own throat with a pearl-handled razor. In the end perhaps, it was for the best. I have to believe that. As the only child, I am to inherit the house and the acre of land upon which it stands.

Alone in a gloom that smells of dust and childhood, I dedicate myself to the prevention of such suffering as my poor mother knew. And I begin to make my plans.

For the first time in twelve years, I spend the night in my old room. I do not sleep well. My dreams are haunted by beating wings. And outside, far off, a dog barks, on and on through the whole restless night.

Next day, I return to Metropolis, where my family and I have been living for some time. I'm working at the State Psychiatric Hospital and one of my patients today has been referred to me from Metropolis Penitentiary.

His name is Martin Hawkins. "Mad Dog" Hawkins.

I listen as he tells me how he was beaten and sexually abused by his father. I ask him why he chose to destroy only the faces and sexual organs of his victims.

"It was the Virgin Mary's idea. She says it's the best way to stop the dirty sluts from spreading their disease."

And I ask why he cuts his arms with a razor.

"Just to feel. Just to feel something." He stared straight through me, in quite a disconcerting manner.

After two hours, he is taken back to the penitentiary to await trial. How many more like him must there be? Men whose only real crime is mental illness, trapped in the penal system with no hope of treatment. My course is clear.

I tell my dear Constance and little Harriet that we will shortly be returning to my family home in Gotham City, there to begin its conversion into a facility for the treatment of the mentally ill. That night, I dream I am a child again.

Lost in a funhouse, I find myself in the Hall of Mirrors. There are strangers in the mirrors and I freeze, not daring to go any further.

Not through that door.

At last, my father comes looking for me. I beg him not to take me into the tunnel of love. We return by the way we entered. That night, I dream that the mirror people have escaped from the glass and come looking for me.

I wake, sweating and adult, and for a moment. Just a moment, I feel as though I'm back. Where I belong.

Back in the old house.

"Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels. And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent called the Devil, and Satan which deceiveth the whole world."

Just as the Archangel subdued the Old Dragon, so shall I bend this house to my will. I will bring light to those dismal corridors of my childhood. I will open up the locked doors and fill the empty rooms.

And set above it all an image of the triumph of reason over the irrational. What better image than a mighty metal statue of the angel Michael defeating the serpent?

Harriet is plagued by nightmares. I fear for the state of my precious girl. Scribbles are scattered on the floor near her bed. Childish, but unnerving drawings of demonic men with two heads or dogs for heads.

I blame the Lewis Carroll, but she insists on reading and rereading the ghastly books. Perhaps things will settle down when work on the house is finished. Perhaps.

There was one final object of note in her room this day. One of the workmen must have dropped it, why would it belong to my daughter?

A playing card.

The Joker.

* * *

In the fall of 1920, I am invited to Europe. It is a memorable tour, and I am amazed by the country even as I walk in the shadow of the Great War from a few years back.

I finally meet the esteemed Professor Jung in Switzerland.

Sigmund Freud shares with me his theory on the division of the mind.

I discuss with another man the topic of immortality. He gives his name as Jonathan Ducard. Immortality exists in many forms; it's not just a simple matter of living forever he claims. I ask him what he means. He cryptically informs me to seek out a league and their leader, a man named Ra's al Ghul. It is a tempting offer, I tell him, but my business back in Gotham prevents it. I recall disgust visibly spreading across his face as I mentioned the city.

And in England, I am introduced to the so-called "Wickedest Man on Earth" – Aleister Crowley. In contrary to the crazed occultist that I am expecting, I find him charming and highly educated. We discuss the symbolism of the Egyptian tarot and he beats me at chess. Twice.

I run out of French cigarettes in the mid-Atlantic.

I return home in time for Christmas and find the conversion of the house to be well under way. Constance surprises me with a wonderful addition to my prized aquarium.

Japanese clown fish are a fascinating species. When a dominant female dies, one of the males in her entourage will actually change sex and assume her former role. For some reason, I am reminded of the French name for an April Fool prank.

Poisson D'Avril. April fish. I experience an inexplicable frisson of déjà vu. And then the telephone rings.

It transpires that Martin Hawkins has escaped from the Penitentiary and the police would like my considered opinion on his state of mind. I tell them he may be highly dangerous and I leave them to it. It's not my problem. Not tonight.

Constance asked me if something was wrong as I set the receiver done. I told her it was nothing, nothing at all.

Harriet is enchanted by the cuckoo clock that I have brought over from Switzerland. I pray that it might take her mind from the bad dreams. Then I remind myself that all intelligent children suffer bad dreams. And she is very beautiful. And perfectly beautiful.

I almost wish she need never grow up.

* * *

Spring is a deceitful season and April 1st, 1912 is cold.

Mercilessly cold.

It's the feeling that chilled my spine as I strolled into the main hall. Reconstruction was still running along, but the workers never left the front door open like that. My nerves starting to fray, I called out for my wife at the foot of the stairs.

"Connie? Did you know the front door was wide open?"

That was when I realized something was wrong. Connie never ignored when I called, and if she did, Harriet did in her place. I apprehensively climbed the stairs, my feet hesitant as I walked towards the nursery.

"Connie?"

I pushed open the door to the nursery. I froze, the bag in my hand slipping from my grasp.

"Are you in-"

I see my wife first, my dear Constance. An appalling scene of carnage, darkening blood splashed everywhere. Her naked body is in pieces, her hair dangling over the foot of the bed. On the wall behind the door, someone has scribbled the words 'Mad Dog' in her blood. My daughter's toy animals have been slashed to ribbons. Her rocking horse smashed to bits. Harriet herself lies nearby, indescribably violated. Almost idly, I wonder where her head is.

And her doll's house

looks

at

me

The clock strikes twelve. A bright red cuckoo pops out. Cu-koo. Cu-koo.

The shock of the moment begins wearing off. I started to scream, the tears uncontrollable.

Sometime has passed. Slowly, methodically, I put on my mother's wedding dress and I kneel down. I kneel down in that nursery abattoir. It all seems perfectly rational. Perfectly, perfectly rational.

Later, I find myself sobbing, choking, retching into the lavatory bowl. Is this what it all comes down to – all our dreams and hopes and aspirations?

Nothing but vomit?

Oh God, I'm afraid.

I'm so afraid. I can't recognize the man in the mirror, his hair sticking up like a madman, This pathetic, desperate mess wasn't me. My chin was covered with the blood of my family, in my bile and vomit. Sniffing, I wipe the last splat of blood from under my right eye.

I think I may be ill.

* * *

In spite of everything, the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane opens its doors officially on schedule, in November 1921.

One of my first patients is Martin Hawkins.

"Mad Dog."

He delights in recounting to me every detail of the atrocities he inflicted upon Constance and Harriet. My sweet Constance and Harriet. He giggles and drools and tells me they begged him to abuse them. He calls my daughter a whore. My Harriet.

And I listen, taking the full impact of his abuses.

I treat him for six months. I am praised for my courage and compassion.

And on April 1st, 1922 – one year to the day I strap Hawkins into the electroshock couth. He's laughing and jeering as usual, his face smug. But I let him see it. The growing eagerness in my eyes, a thin smile. His eyes start to cloud with fear at the last second. And I burn the filthy bastard.

The orderlies that rushed in instantly treat it as an accident, these things happen. They have no reason to suspect foul play. Why would compassionate Dr. Arkham kill his own patients, after all? There is ozone and the smell of burnt skin in my nostrils. But I feel nothing. No sense of retribution, no sense of closure, no regret. There is nothing at all.

I take to patrolling the corridors between the hours of three and four in the morning. I visit the secret room often, in order that I might keep my journal up to date. Routine is important, I think. A good routine diverts the mind from morbid imaginings. Sometimes I am sure I hear hysterical laughter from a cell I know to be empty. Sometimes it's Mad Dog, sometimes it's mother, sometime it's my wife and girl.

I tape over the mirror in my study. The laughter ceases. And I return to my ritual perambulations. My movements through the house have become as formalized as ballet and I feel that I have become an essential part of some incomprehensive biological process.

The house is an organism, hungry for madness. It is the maze that dreams. And I am lost.

Shocked by my "ill health" some friends take me to the opera – Wagner's Parsifal. Do they not understand? Can't they see that I'm breaking in a thousand places? Time…

Time becomes

strange

* * *

Forty minutes have passed since I ingested three portions of the amanita mushroom. So far, no effect. Abruptly, I become convinced that the house is alive and trying to communicate with me. A pressure at the back of my head makes me turn. In their tiny, contained universe, two vast and shimmering clown fish glide towards one another. The fish Constance gave me. And they make the sing of Pisces. Pisces, I realize! The astrological attribution of the moon card in the tarot pack! The symbol of trial and initiation. Death and rebirth.

And I realize at last.

I have been shown the path. I must follow where it leads. Like Parsifal, I must confront the unreason that threatens me. I must go alone into the Dark Tower. Without a backwards glance. And face the dragon within. I have only one fear. What if I am not strong enough to defeat it? What then? The drug takes hold. I feel small and afraid. Perhaps I've done the wrong thing. Somewhere, not far away, the dragon hauls its terrible weight through the corridors of the asylum. I am borne up on a wave of perfect terror and the world explodes.

There is nothing to hold onto. No anchor. Panic stricken, I flee. I run blindly through the madhouse. And I cannot even pray. For I have no God. Doors open and close, applauding my flight. Keyholes bleed. A choir of sexually maimed children sings my name over and over again.

"Arkham."

"Arkham."

"Arkham."

I'm falling. Oh mother, what tree is this? What wounds are these? I am Attis on the pine. Christ on the cedar. Odin on the world-ash. Hung on the windy tree for nine whole nights wounded with the spear. Dedicated to Odin. Myself to myself. I must see my reflection to prove I still exist.

Outside, I hear the dragon coming, closer. Desperately, I peel the tape from the mirror, breaking my fingernails, strip by strip until I stand revealed in the glass. And I stare into old familiar eyes.

MOTHER!

I must have fainted then, for it is morning when I next open my eyes. No longer able to tell where the dragon ended and I begin. Yet am I not the hero, the man of destiny? Have I not confronted the Great Dragon? Where then is my grail? My treasure horde? My final reward?

And suddenly, the longed for revelation comes in the form of memory my mind had suppressed.

It is 1920. Trees thrash in the dark under a restless sky. Rain rattles the windows. Why? Why have I come here?

My mother thrashes in bed, screaming. "It's here! It's here!"

"Mother, please. There's nothing!" I plead with her. Why am I so afraid?

"Every night! Every night!" My poor poor mother goes.

Beneath the bed, giant wings begin to beat. I am not mad. I am not mad.

"See? There? It's come for me!" My mother cries hopelessly.

But God help me, I see it. I see the thing that has haunted and tormented my poor mother these long years. I see it. and it's a bat. A BAT! Oh, my poor mother.

"Don't let it take me! Please don't let it."

I stare long and deeply at my tormented mother Elizabeth. It is a tough decision, but I understand what must be done. I ready my penknife, my eyes filling with tears. Curtains blow behind me, the loose wind scattering my papers.

"It won't take you, I promise. Don't be afraid, mother."

I readied the pearl-handled razor. I raised my arm up high.

"I love you."

* * *

I understand now what my memory tried to keep from me. Madness is born in the blood. It is my birthright. My inheritance. My destiny.

Draped in my mother's wedding dress, I wander through the corridors of Arkham Asylum. I shall contain the presences that roam these rooms and narrow stairways. I shall surround them with bars and walls and electrified fences and pray they never break free. I am the dragon's bride, the son of the widow.

Leather wings enfold me.

I see now the virtue in madness, for this country knows no law or any boundary. I pity the poor shades confined the Euclidean prison that is sanity. All things are possible here and I am what madness had made me.

Whole.

And Complete.

And free at last.

I'm Arkham.

I'm home.

Where I belong.


	9. The Dark Knight Triumphant

"You see now? You understand?" The raving doctor screeched at Batman as he closed Amadeus Arkham's journal.

"You who've kept this place supplied with poor mad souls for months. You who've fed this hungry house. Do you see? You are the BAT! The bat that drove Arkham's mother to madness!" Cavendish accused Batman. He madly waved the knife-wielding hand in the hair. His hostage remained frozen, face stricken with horror at her colleague's state.

"No." Bruce slammed Arkham's journal back on the dust-consumed table from which it came. He would have to reason with Cavendish.

"I'm just a man, Dr. Cavendish. The mask, it's just a symbol. With the mask, I can become more than a man. I just seek to inspire the people of Gotham to become the best they can."

"I'm not fooled by the fancy padding on your suit or the loud tanks you drive down the street. I know what you are, Batman." The doctor spat at Batman.

"Arkham tried to kill his stockbroker in 1929. That's what they finally locked him away for, did you know that? It didn't stop him. He'd read the 'Golden Bough.' He'd studied the shamanistic practices, and he knew that only ritual, only magic, could contain the Bat. So you know what he did? He scratched a binding spell into the floor of his cell."

Bruce thought back to the room that he had stumbled across while hiding from Jonathan Crane earlier that night. The floor covered in stone etchings, a circular motion that consumed the entire room in millions and millions of words.

"He used his fingernails. Can you imagine that? His fingernails. It took him years, to the point where the staff didn't even recognize him. He gave everything. But it still wasn't enough. Two years ago, I found this hidden room. I read the journal then, too. I just couldn't stop thinking about what Arkham had said and I realized it was my destiny to finish what he started. I set a trap for the Bat, you see. I surrounded the Asylum with a circle of salt so it couldn't escape again. And now…"

"Dr. Cavenish! Charles, please!" Dr. Adams was tugging at her colleague, having regained her composure. He answered her pleas by backhanding her across the cheek.

"SHUT UP, you ignorant cow!" He shoved her aside.

"Cavendish, you're sick. You need help." Bruce tried to reason with the doctor.

"I'm sick? Have you look in a mirror lately? Have you?"

What happened next was a blur to Bruce. Cavendish was upon him, tackling him to the ground. The ferociousness of the assault had surprised Bruce. If it had been any other night, he would've utilized any one of the hundred techniques he knew to dispatch Cavendish non-lethally. But he let the wretched bastard overwhelm him, plunge the razor deep in his leg. The same one that he had injured during the fight with Croc. With the last of his strength, Bruce heaved and knocked the blade from Cavendish's hand. Cavendish was trying to squeeze his hands around Bruce's throat, calling him a mommy's boy. Bruce managed to kick the doctor back. Cavendish tripped, Bruce saw Adams reaching for the razor. Before he could yell at her to stop, she grabbed Cavendish by the hair. "Momm-" Cavendish cried out as Adams pressed the razor into his throat. With a slitting motion, the blade darkened with blood.

"NO, CHARLES!" Cavendish slumped.

"Oh god." As she clenched the bloody knife.

"Oh my god." As the knife fell and clattered upon the floor.

"I didn't mean to do it, Batman…"

Bruce thought to the victims he had seen entering the Asylum. The staff who weren't fortunate to make it out. The catatonic guard whom the Joker had shot. All those who had died as a result of Cavendish's delusional scheme.

"He got what he deserved. Come on." Batman pulled her towards an opening in the wall. They were in another passage. The two were like miniscule figures in the blackness of the passageway. It was like the inhabitants compared to the Asylum. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

"I take this passage is the way out?"

"Yes… yes, it must be…" The doctor seemed to be in a form of shock.

"I know." Bruce didn't plan on following her. He still had work to do her. One last act.

"Do you still have Harvey Dent's coin, Dr. Adams?"

"Yes…? Why are you asking me this? I just killed someone." The doctor's head hung in shame.

"I can get you in touch with people, doctor, who can help you cope. Just give me the coin." Batman gently asked. and beckoned.

"You're going back in, aren't you? You're going to undo all my work… all the hope we have of curing Harvey Dent's disorder. What do you think you are?" The doctor meekly asked as she dug into her pocket and produced a familiar silver piece. A two-faced coin, perfect on one side but burnt beyond recognition on the other.

"Stronger than them. Stronger than this place. I have to show them. Prove him wrong."

"That's insane." The doctor timidly told Batman as he noticed a spare axe scattered on the floor.

"Exactly. Arkham was right, sometimes it's only the madness that makes us what we are."

Batman limped back into the darkness, becoming part of the shadows. As the last trail of his cape vanished from view, he said to Adams one last word.

"Or destiny perhaps."

* * *

He was cutting away at Arkham, determined not to let the mysticism of the house exert its control over him any longer. Wood and stone flew in bits as the blade of the axe connected. A wild-eyed Victor Zsasz was fleeing towards the dining hall, screaming over and over that the Bat was coming for them.

"It's the Bat! The Bat's destroying everything!" Zsasz cried as he tripped over some of the debris of the party. Alarm started to brew as the inmates heard him mention the Bat. All eyes were focused on an argument brewing between the Joker and Roman Sionis at the center of the room.

"…you should have never let him in here, Joker! He's too dangerous!" A black mask contorted with unadulterated rage snarled at the Joker.

"That's right! Blame me, go on!" The Joker retorted in a calm, unnerving mannerism. Intimidated, the man in the black mask backed down. The banging noise was getting louder and closer by the second. The Joker stood solemnly as the other inmates backed behind him. He almost felt like chastising them for cowardice. They somehow still were afflicted by a superstitious fear of a man in a suit and cape.

Almost on cue, the entrance to the dining hall was knocked from its hinges. Standing in the dim doorway was the Batman. His suit had been damaged in a multitude of areas, his cape was a torn mess, and he was bleeding as he limped. But yet, somehow, there was an unimaginable aura of determination radiating from the man in spite of his wounds. Something flew across the air and landed with a piercing thud at the Joker's feet. The inmates behind him started chattering chaotically in their fear.

The Joker stared downcast at the axe, and then at Batman. For just a brief second, there was a hint of some sanity in the man's eyes. A realization or reflection of sorts.

"You're free. You're all free."

The Joker smiled sadly, his eyes almost admiring Batman. But his sanity was gone as quickly as it had appeared, the sadistic agent of chaos back. The Joker chuckled menacingly.

"Oh, we know that already. That's why we're all here. But what about you, Batman? Have you come to claim your kingly robes? Or do you just want us to put you out of your misery, like the poor, sick creature you are?"

"Why don't you let Harvey decide what to do with me?" Batman pointed to the scarred man lingering at the rim of the room.

"Two-Face? Brilliant!" The Joker agreed in vivacious approval.

"Me? Batman, no. I can't… really… I.." as Harvey stammered, Batman took out something he had been carrying. Harvey's eyes gleamed as the shiny circular object flew towards him. Eagerly, Harvey stretched out both of his hands.

Harvey changed as the silver coin landed in his palms. The indecision, the timid nature that Dr. Adams's attempted treatments had grown withered away. He straightened up, his eyes serious and lethal. This was the Harvey Dent that had held Gordon's family at gunpoint, driven mad and ready to end their lives with the flip of a coin.

"If the unmarked side comes up, he goes free. If it's the scarred side, he dies here. That okay with you?"

Batman nodded.

His thumb sprung up.

The coin rose slowly, spinning gracefully. The coin reached the climax of its ascent, a crack of lightning illuminating the dining room as it did. The coin rapidly fell, revolving wildly. With a quick move of his left, Harvey cupped the coin on his right. He lifted his palm to see which side had landed. Impassively, he announced

"He goes free."

* * *

Rain poured down on Bruce as the Joker opened the doors of the Asylum for him. Bruce stepped out, a battalion of armed officers rushed from flashing vehicles to round up all the inmates. As they poured into the Asylum, Bruce turned back to look at the Joker, who was being restrained by two burly officers in armor.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, Batman! Still, you can't see we didn't show you a good time. Enjoy yourself out there, in the Asylum."

One of the cops punched the Joker hard, in an attempt to shut him up. It had always surprised Bruce that a rogue cop had never murdered the Joker outright. He had, after all, murdered so many of their own. Even as he was dragged back into the dark halls of Arkham, the Joker laughed back at Batman.

"Just don't forget – if it ever gets too tough out there, we'll always have a place for you here. In the real world."

Commissioner Gordon was holding an umbrella, droplets falling from its tips. Doctor Adams was being led to an ambulance.

"Batman? Dammit, what happened to you?"

"Doesn't matter now, Jim." The two stood side by side, watching the last of the cops storm into the Asylum.

"There's something I want to talk to you about, Batman. Someone by the codename Enigma committed several robberies and hackings this morning. He left a trail. Riddles and other clues."

"I'll be on it as soon as I can."

* * *

He ignored the chaos around him as the men in blue rounded up his fellow inmates. He stood motionlessly, his personal space calm and still. A brief vacuum of tranquility as the world went to hell. There was going to be an act named after him, one that would eliminate the gangs that had done this to him, but he didn't care much.

Harvey Dent smiled. He slipped the coin back into his pocket. It had landed with the scarred side up. They should've killed the Batman, but he had let the man go. The Batman had once told him something about gambling a life with the toss of a coin. Harvey turned, looking at the house he built from the cards the doctor had given him when she took the coin away.

"Who cares for you?"

Harvey swept his arm, shattering the house into a disarray of tarot cards.

"You're nothing but a pack of cards."

**And is not that a Mother's gentle hand that withdraws your curtains, and a mother's sweet voice that summons you to rise? To rise and forget, in the bright sunlight, the ugly dreams that frightened you so when all was dark.**

**Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland**


End file.
